


Country Roads (Take Me Home)

by krabapple



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krabapple/pseuds/krabapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I hear her voice / In the mornin' hour she calls me / Radio reminds me of my home far away / And drivin' down the road I get the feelin' / That I should have been home yesterday</i>.</p><p>John goes, and comes, home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Country Roads (Take Me Home)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for season four, but none for season five -- could be considered AU after season four.

It wasn't very often that John got called down to the labs to test the Ancient equipment. If they needed someone with the gene in order to operate something, there was Rodney, and, it had to be said, Rodney was always eager to help in that regard. Eager, loud, demanding -- Rodney regularly put his gene to good use. There were, however, some things not even Rodney could turn on, or make light up, or have skitter across the counter top, in which case John would get a call over his radio from Zelenka. In spite of Zelenka's best efforts, John could always hear Rodney sputtering on the other end about inbreeding and alien mating habits.

Today was no different. It was a slow day in Atlantis, or what passed for a slow day. Lorne's team was off-world, but only for a visit with happy and satisfied trading partners. John had spent the morning training the new Marines, which mostly involved telling them _not to touch anything_. Carter, Keller, Teyla and Ronon had gone to the small patch of land in the southwest corner of the planet that was currently home to the Athosians. Keller was conducting checkups; Carter was performing some diplomatic maneuvering. Teyla had gone to show off her new son, Torren, and Ronon went along with her mostly to hover benevolently and give the other kids rides on his shoulders.

It had to be a slow day in the labs, too, otherwise they wouldn't be trying to catalog unknown Ancient equipment in the first place. Usually they were too busy fixing the latest crisis, or running simulations on the ZPM, or adjusting the sewer system (one of Miko's favorite projects). Zelenka had radioed John just before he was about to swing by and grab McKay for lunch anyway, so John had thought it would do no harm to also try out the latest Ancient remote control or electronic text reader.

Zelenka must have been having a bad day, because he bolted out off his stool at the first sight of John. "Colonel!" he said, picking something black off the table and heading toward John.

"Hey, now, go easy on that thing! We don't know what it is!" Rodney's scowl, if not his warning, was deeply impressive.

Zelenka rolled his eyes at John, and John didn't even bother to try to hide his smile. "If he were woman, I'd think he was -- " Zelenka started.

"Don't even finish that sentence, Radek."

"That's right, Dr. Zelenka. I'm sure it's offensive to women," John said.

Zelenka offered John a smile. "It has been some day."

"I saw him have coffee this morning," John offered.

"It was something you call . . . _Folgers_ ," Zelenka offered. John winced.

"I am _right here_ ," McKay snapped. "And just because I was force fed that sorry excuse for _dirt_ doesn't mean I'm not right about --"

"So you wanted me to test something for you?" John decided it was better to cut off Rodney's rant. The sooner they were out of there the sooner he could attempt to distract Rodney from his bad mood with blue jello.

"Yes," Zelenka said eagerly, pushing his glasses up his nose. He held out the device for John to look at.

"Do you know what it does?" John asked, looking at the small device closely. It was roughly a cylinder, but with sharper side panels that drew into points at either end, and smaller than the palm of his hand.

"No," Zelenka answered.

"Awesome," John said, reaching out a hand to take the device from Zelenka.

"No, not awesome," Rodney snapped. "I think it's a personal heating device, but it could still be dangerous. It could get too hot, or not hot enough . . ."

"Relax, Rodney. I'm sure it's fine," John said.

"That's exactly what someone says right before they get set on fire by an Ancient keychain, Sheppard."

John shrugged. "You all have a fire extinguisher, don't you?" He grinned, and reached out to take the device, which started to glow bright yellow in his hand.

The last thing John heard before the darkness engulfed him was Rodney's, "Is it too hot?"

****

John heard himself saying, as the darkness receded, "No, not hot at all." Which was true -- the device in his hand was still at the exact same temperature it had been when he had taken it from Zelenka.

The problem was, there was no Zelenka standing in front of him. No Rodney behind the lab counter.

As a matter of fact, there wasn't even a lab at all. John found he was standing outside in broad daylight. He blinked against the sun and tried to orient himself. He was on a circular gravel driveway, a road out ahead of him beyond the grass. Trees lined the side of the road.

Okay. So this was definitely not Atlantis. Right. Fine. Maybe the device was a personal transporter. That was plausible. John had been beamed around by the Daedalus often enough that such a device made sense to him; it wasn't that much of a leap to think the Ancients might have developed similar technology.

Which left the question of where, exactly, he might be. The drive began to look unsettlingly familiar, and not because it was from the Pegasus galaxy. Aware that he had no idea what was at his back, John slowly turned around.

" _Shit_ ," he said. He knew the house. The bushes were different, different flowers were blooming along the side of the drive, but that didn't much matter to John. This was The House, the Virginia House, His Father's House. John had lived there from the age of three to the age of eighteen, and only visited a handful of times since then -- the last for his father's funeral six months ago. The house looked different than it had for Patrick Sheppard's service, but John couldn't quite place his finger on how -- some of the landscaping, yeah. The back patio wasn't as big, and the front door wasn't the same. It didn't much surprise John; as he thought about it, Dave had gotten the house, and it was just like Dave to change things to suit him. John shrugged.

So the Ancient device might be some kind of teleporter, and it had brought him back to his childhood house. Okay. In a different galaxy. Even with all he'd seen in Pegasus, John was still mildly surprised the Ancients could manage to skip galaxies like that, but it definitely had advantages.

In fact, the effects of this could be _huge_. If the expedition could figure out how to actually work the thing, get it to go where someone wanted it to, the implications could be enormous. If they could find more, or discover how to manufacture them . . . huh. This was _way_ better than a personal heating device. McKay. John couldn't wait to tell Rodney what this thing _actually_ did. He wasn't sure why it had brought him to Virginia, and he at this point, he really didn't care. It was a personal transporter. That crossed galaxies. That was just _cool_. For all he knew, it could even lead to parallel worlds. This might not even be his own universe. Rodney was going to have heart palpitations.

He was about to see if he could get the device to take him back to Atlantis when he first heard the sound of a car rumbling up the drive. _Great_. It was probably Dave, which meant he'd have to come up with some excuse as to why he was here. Yes, their relationship had gotten marginally better since Dad had died, but that didn't mean John wanted to be searching for a reason to be in Virginia when he should be in Atlantis. Steeling himself, John turned back around to face the drive.

It wasn't Dave's black BMW that was headed his way. Instead, what looked like a mid-seventies Ford LTD wagon was coming up the drive. While it looked fairly new, John couldn't imagine Dave ever driving _that_ monstrosity, and _not_ with wooden side panels.

Confused, and with a bad feeling in his gut, John unconsciously squeezed the device in his hand as the car rolled to a stop a few feet ahead of him. The driver's side door popped open immediately, and a young woman stepped out.

"If you could . . . just a minute . . . I'm so sorry," she said, gesturing at John to wait where he was. She ran to the back of the car and opened the door. "I'm so sorry," she repeated, dragging out two big brown bags of groceries and managing to close the back hatch between her elbow and her hip. "I know we were supposed to meet at ten thirty, but the traffic was awful . . ."

John stayed rooted to the spot as the two back doors opened and two boys tumbled out; one with sandy hair on one side and one with dark hair on the other. They both ran at top speed around the house to the back. The woman paused in her apologies to John in order to issue them directions.

"David, you stay out of the creek, okay? The woods are fine but the creek is off limits today." John heard a muffled shout of assent. "And John. John! _John_ ," she shouted. "You are not allowed in the barn unless Todd is there, do you hear me? John?" A "yeah, mom" floated from around the side of the house and the woman relaxed.

She came around the car to where John was standing. "Sorry for being late, and the distractions. Boys, you know?" John nodded mutely, not knowing what to say. "Claire Sheppard," the woman said. "I'd give you a hand to shake, but --" She juggled the grocery bags in demonstration.

John found his voice. "Right. Right. No problem. I'm . . . John," he finished lamely.

"Nice to meet you, John." Claire smiled. "That's my son's name."

"I know," John said.

****

He followed her into the kitchen, partly at her insistence, and partly because he couldn't fathom doing anything else. She started making coffee, putting groceries away in the pantry and the fridge. She poured John a cup of coffee, and he took it, black. A big gulp went down bitterly, but it was something tangible for John to hold on to.

"So, like the ad said, it's not a big job," Claire said, pouring cream into her coffee until it was the same color as the kitchen cabinets. "Most of the work has been done downstairs, but we want to renovate and repaint some of the bedrooms, add a couple of rooms on the main level if we're ambitious, though we haven't decided, and insulate the attic. Do you have a crew?"

John automatically thought of Teyla, Ronon and Rodney, and his heart seized momentarily in his chest. "I." He cleared his throat. "I. No. I do most of the work myself."

"Oh. Well, if we decide to add on the rooms, do you think you can do that? We'd love to have everything done by September."

John just nodded.

"And you have prior experience?" Claire looked a little skeptical now, which made John duck his head.

John had lots of experience, of course. He had flown almost every chopper imaginable, F-16s and other high powered planes; he took puddlejumpers out on a nearly daily basis. Hell, he had even flown an entire _city_. He had extensive combat experience, field experience, command experience. In his time he had ordered supplies, brokered treaties with aliens, trained recruits.

But for two summers in college, he had worked on houses in Boston. The only thing he hadn't done was the plumbing, those hot days working for a guy named Matty, and he always reckoned he could have figured that out in a pinch.

It was those summers that made him say, "Yes. I've done this kind of work before. Used to be on a crew in Boston. Worked on lots of houses."

"Uh-huh. Well. We'll expect you here nine to five; you get an hour for lunch; we pay you weekly. If you need help you're welcome to put together a crew, but you're responsible for paying them."

"Yes, ma'am."

"This is a serious job, John. My husband's with the Pentagon. We do everything above board and by the letter. We'll treat you well and pay you well. In return we expect responsible, reliable service and a job well done. Our boys are very important to us, and if you can't work with them around, then you can't work here. Is that understood?"

John nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he said. He didn't remember her this way, of course. The no-nonsense tone, business manner. The way she'd had two cups of coffee in the last five minutes. Some things, though, were familiar, coming more and more into focus the longer he was there. She's dressed in a flowing patterned blouse and, bless her, her thought, bell bottoms. Her hair was tied back in a hasty ponytail, dark and curly, unruly like his around the edges -- her face, the nape of her neck. She had a deep Southern accent and a soft voice. She was shorter than he remembered, the idea startling John. She wasn't that petite, about 5' 5", 5' 6" on the outside, and she had shucked her shoes the minute they had stepped into the house.

Suddenly she was looking at him, eyebrows raised, with a look somewhere between sardonic and accepting, a look he had thought only appeared on his own face. She took a pen and scrap piece of paper from the junk drawer and scribbled something down before passing it across the counter to John.

"Is that a fair amount per week?"

John barely looked down; he didn't care. "Absolutely."

Claire smiled and reached out to shake his hand. "Great. So we have a deal?"

John looked at her hand before taking it. It was cool and soft in his own. "Deal."

Later, when John stepped out the back door, he managed to persuade the real job applicant, in a Volkswagon and talking about the traffic like Claire, to turn around and not waste his time. The job had been filled.

John walked to the highway, closed his fingers around the Ancient device now in his palm, and thought as hard as he could: _Home. Home. Home._ When he realized he went nowhere, he tried to picture Rodney's face, closed his eyes, and thought: _Atlantis. Please._

****

The next thing he knew was Rodney's voice, a little high-pitched and a little exasperated: "Well, _is_ it too hot?" as if he had asked the question more than once.

John opened his eyes. Zelenka and Rodney looked at him expectantly, as if he might burst into flames at any moment.

"No, McKay. It's not too hot," John said, putting the device back on the counter as it faded from yellow back to black.

Rodney's face looked somewhere between annoyed and relieved. John, meanwhile, willed his heart to stop pounding.

****

He went back, of course. It was stupid, and dangerous, and weird beyond all of his imagining, but he went, over and over and over again.

Rodney had cataloged the device as unusable and put it in the storage section of the labs, in its own container and with its own label. John had been careful not to say anything. Even he wasn't sure what the device did. Was it a time machine? A personal transporter? A wish-fulfillment machine? Not that John would have thought working on his parents' house in the summer of 1976 was exactly his deepest wish, but who knew what the Ancients thought about these things.

If John has spoken up, told Carter and McKay about where he had been, what the device had done, there would be hell to pay, in so many different ways. Experiments with the device. With him. With him and the device. Things would be out of his hands.

Besides, it wasn't like time ever passed, on either end. Whenever he went to Virginia, even if he'd been away for days, it was like he had been there the entire time. No one asked where he'd been for a week. Everyone greeted him just the same, and he went back to whatever project he was working on at the time. He bought tools, and some jeans and t-shirts to work in; he stashed them in his quarters and pretended not to hear Rodney when Rodney asked if that was a new shirt when he wore one to team movie night.

When he came back to Atlantis, the same was true, only even more precise. He always came back to Atlantis in the exact minute he left, in the exact same place he had left. No one missed him.

No one ever knew he was gone.

If they knew what he was doing, they would stop him. And John wasn't ready to give up anything just yet.

****

John usually had lunch with himself in Virginia. That is to say, his younger self usually plopped himself down in the grass next to John with a peanut butter and jelly and chocolate milk. They would eat together in silence and then lay down in the grass, which prickled pleasantly at John's back.

Sometimes Little John, as John called his eight-year-old self (and, yes, the Robin Hood reference did amuse him), would tell John a story, spinning a tale of childhood angst and woe. The day his turtle died was an epic poem, involving the vet's office, the moment of death, the burial and the wake (Mom made chocolate chip cookies). There were times when John would ask a question where his own adult memory was hazy, and tuck away the answer for his own reference.

Or sometimes Little John would ask questions -- where did John come from? Why did they have the same name? Had John always wanted to be a carpenter when he grew up? Sometimes the questions were so prescient that John wondered if his younger self knew something, or at the very least sensed that something different was at work in the situation. But then John used his memory to conjure up his own image of himself at eight, and realized through the haze of time that, no, that was just the way he had been: bright, curious, friendly.

He didn't spend much time thinking about when that little boy had disappeared.

Today wasn't any different. John hadn't been to Virginia in almost a week and a half. One off-world mission lasted four days; not for any catastrophic reason, which was a relief. Mainly there was a lot of dancing, a goodly amount of food, and enough ale to keep even Ronon happily buzzed. But by the time they managed to ease their way away from their generous hosts and through the gate, John was itchy, restless. He knew why. He was in the middle of painting one of the upstairs rooms, creating crown molding for it by hand out near the garage. He wanted to get back, finish it. It had been too long, a thought that scared John when he dared think about it long enough. So he made it through the debriefings, new marine team deployments, and stick practice with Teyla as fast as possible -- all so he could go back to a house over thirty years old and billions of miles away.

John had already finished eating today's lunch, ham and cheese from the little deli in the village. He was on his back in the grass, eyes closed in the face of the bright sunlight. He felt more than heard Little John join him; there was a soft whisper in the air as the boy sat down, the grass crunching underneath his legs.

John cracked open an eye. "Hey, buddy," he said.

His eight year old self looked up from his lap, where he had been reading a comic book, hands around his eyes to shield them from the sun. "Hi, John."

"Whatchya doing?"

"Reading."

That was part of what John loved about these conversations. No trace of sarcasm or irony; Little John was only offering up an honest answer to an honest question. "Reading what?" John asked.

Little John flashed John a glimpse of the comic's cover in reply.

"Oh, _The Amazing Spider-Man_ ," John read from the over. "Nice. Is that the latest issue?"

Little John nodded. "Yep. I got to it before Dave," he said, and couldn't keep the glee out of his voice.

John laughed. "Good for you."

"Yeah. I mean, it's okay if he reads them, but sometimes he's messy and I don't really like that."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. He eats when he's reading them, and then they come back to me and they have ketchup on them and stuff."

"Well, that's not right," John affirmed.

"No, it's not. It's okay with the Superman ones, 'cause I'm done with them after I read them. But Spider-Man is my favorite."

"Your favorite?" John looked over in time to see the kid duck his head.

"Yeah."

John smiled. "What makes Spider-Man your favorite?"

For a second John didn't think Little John was going to say anything, but it turned out he was only getting warmed up. "'Cause I like Peter Parker. He's smart and funny and stuff. He's like a regular guy who can also do these awesome things."

John hummed in agreement. "Makes it fun to think you could be a hero, too."

"Yep. 'Cause I'm regular just like Peter Parker. Maybe I'll be a hero, too."

"Maybe," John agreed, swallowing. He was happy to have Little John go back to his comic and for the conversation to end. As it was, he had to get up and go back to painting if he was going to be able to look the kid in the eye again.

****

Friday was payday, not that that meant much to John. He already had a stack of checks in his nightstand on Atlantis, green bank checks made out to cash in Claire Sheppard's neat handwriting. It wasn't like he had a bank account here in 1976; he thought briefly about cashing them, but what would he do with the money? He already had all the money he ever wanted or needed, stashed away in an Earth bank account in 2008. They didn't use money in Atlantis; the SGC provided everything for them, and Chuck's thriving black market took care of everything else. Besides, he wasn't sure any bank would let him deposit 30 something year old checks, even if he wanted to, which he didn't.

He wasn't here for the money. And seeing his mother's handwriting was more valuable than the amount she wrote on the checks anyway.

This Friday John wandered into the kitchen about five, as he usually did. Claire smiled at him.

"I just made some iced tea -- would you like some?"

"Sure," John said easily, sliding onto one of the kitchen stools. His heart never failed to flutter just a bit whenever she addressed him.

Claire poured the tea over two glasses generously filled with ice, then turned the oven light on and bent down to check whatever was in there. It smelled like chicken to John. She came back and set the tall glass in front of him. John took it gratefully, genuinely thirsty after working all day.

"I should be able to put the crown molding up in the guest bedroom next week," John said.

"That's wonderful, John," Claire said. She took a sip from her glass and then reached for her purse, pulling out her checkbook. "We're so pleased with the work you're doing."

John ducked his head. "Thank you, ma'am."

Claire smiled. "I'm not used to being called ma'am," she said. "Claire is just fine."

"Okay. Thank you, Claire," John said.

"That's better." Claire pulled the check off and slid it across the counter toward John. "In fact, Patrick and I are so happy, we think we're going to add those rooms to the downstairs after all, maybe extend the deck. What do you think?"

"I think that's up to you and your husband."

Claire grinned, a little lopsided. "I meant, is that a project you'd be interested in doing for us?"

John's answering smile was slightly bashful. "Yes. Sure. Yes. I'd love to."

Claire didn't laugh, but John saw the amusement dancing in her eyes. "It's a deal then. Same hours, if that works for you. We'll up your weekly salary to take into account the extra work, and we'll pay for all the supplies, of course."

John nodded, unable to speak for a reason he couldn't identify.

"Excellent. Do you have any plans for the weekend?" asked Claire.

John thought. Plans for the weekend. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had plans for the weekend. Atlantis ran on a seven day schedule, of course, but it wasn't like he got a lot of time off. Carter tried to implement a regular rotation of off days, but that fell into a shambles quickly, between city-wide emergencies, longer than usual -- and often dangerous -- off world missions, and the just plain huge amount of work most of the expedition members had to do. John was lucky to get a day off once a month.

What passed for John's weekend plans was an off-world mission to M70-X51, a planet they'd never been to, and where he could only hope the natives were friendly and the weirdest thing they had strangers do was hold court at a banquet.

"No, not really," John said. He tilted his head. "Maybe dinner with some friends."

"Oh, that sounds nice," Claire hummed, taking the chicken out of the oven.

"Yeah," John said, and shook his head quietly.

 

****

As it turned out the visit to M70-X51 _had_ involved a banquet. It also involved a ritual cleansing that, as far as John could figure, was designed with as much humiliation as possible in mind. Well, John thought of it as humiliating, though Ronon had worn a strange smile for the rest of the day, which, frankly, freaked John out. Rodney seemed appropriately pink around the ears, however, which John found reassuring. Being scrubbed down with the local version of soap (John could have sworn there was grass in it) by the eldest women in the village and then covered in oil (possibly made with pine, John had thought) by the eldest men in the village before being sent for inspection by the high priest who actually used a magnifying glass to peer at their skin was not exactly John's idea of a good time. Especially when the priest had sniffed dismissively and made disparaging remarks about the size of John's pores (too big, apparently). Still, they had made it home with an agreement to trade antibiotics for what looked and tasted surprisingly like peaches, so John chalked it up to a win.

John was on his way back to his quarters to take a shower -- in private -- when Teyla caught up with him, jogging a bit until she was able to meet him and match his stride.

"Teyla," John said.

"John," Teyla greeted him, tilting her head.

They walked along in silence for a minute, John nodding to various staff members as he passed. Finally John said, "I think that was a productive mission."

"Yes. I think both parties will benefit greatly," Teyla replied, before taking a breath that John knew from long experience meant that she was about to embark on her real reason for speaking with him. John stiffened unconsciously. "John, if I may . . ." she started.

John hummed a non-committal sound, but kept walking along with Teyla.

Teyla continued. "You seem distracted lately," she said.

"Distracted?"

"Yes. I have noticed that you are not as . . . focused in some situations as you usually are."

John frowned. "I thought our mission went fine -- and was successful."

"Of course. But I am not talking about our off-world missions, John."

John stopped and turned to face Teyla. "Then what are you talking about?"

Teyla merely stood her ground and looked at John calmly. "I am speaking of our meetings with Colonel Carter, or our briefings as a team, our practice sessions."

"You think I'm neglecting the team?" John couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.

"No. Not exactly. I am not concerned about the team, John. I am concerned about you."

"Me? Teyla --"

"You do not seem yourself. You do not spend very much time with us. Not even with Dr. McKay. Nor do you spend time elsewhere. Major Lorne has mentioned that he hasn't spoken to you at length in some time."

"I've been busy, Teyla. The Daedalus is due here in a week, and that always ups my workload."

"I understand that. I am." Teyla paused. "You are very inwardly focused, John, even more so than usual. If there is something wrong --"

John sighed. "Nothing's wrong, Teyla."

"If there were, you would remember that we are not just colleagues, but also friends, yes?"

"Yes, Teyla." John tried to smile.

Teyla smiled in response, but it seemed somewhat sad. "Of course."

 

****

John was inside, so he heard the crying first. It wasn't loud, but it was low-pitched and earnest, and John knew immediately that it was a child. He wondered if he should wait, see if Claire took care of it; he waited for a minute, but the crying didn't stop, so John started out into the hallway, following the sound.

It didn't take him long to stumble into Dave's room, and it was Dave who was crying. Little John was perched next to him on the bed, his face pulled downwards into a serious expression. Dave was holding his hands in front of his nose and making hiccuping sounding sobs.

"Hey, guys," John said, coming into the room. "Something wrong?"

Dave looked up but didn't speak. John crossed the room to the bed and said gently, "Can I see, David?"

Dave nodded slowly; his brother still hadn't said a word, but his eyes were wide and glued to what John was doing.

Dave moved his hands away from his face, guided by John's hands on his wrists, gently pulling his hands down and toward John. John shushed him, "Hey now, buddy, it's okay."

Much to John's relief, it really was okay. Dave had a nosebleed, but it wasn't particularly heavy, and it didn't look like he'd really hurt himself -- no bruises and the nose definitely wasn't broken. John knelt down and rocked back on his heels, Dave's arms still in his hands. "John, can you go to the bathroom and get a wet washcloth for me?"

Little John nodded and obeyed instantly, slipping from the bed. John could hear his feet pounding down the hall as he ran to the bathroom.

"Did you hit your nose on something, Dave?" John asked.

Dave shook his head, managing a trembling, "No."

"Oh. So it just started bleeding?"

Dave nodded and then looked a little horrified, as if the nodding of his head might make the bleeding worse.

"That's okay, then," John said. "Sometimes that happens. It's probably just dry because of all the air conditioning." Dave looked disbelieving, but John could feel his arms relax, see his shoulders fall just a little. Little John came back with a washcloth and handed it to John.

"I'm going to press this to your nose, okay? Don't lean back; if anything lean forward just a little bit. I promise it won't hurt," John said, raising the washcloth to Dave's nose. He pressed gently to staunch the bleeding, though he didn't think it would take much. Little John sat back down next to Dave on the bed, hovering, eventually placing his small hand on Dave's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. John was struck by the gesture; he and Dave had basically grown up and decided to hate each other. It was hard to remember a time when it wasn't like that.

Just as John started to pull the washcloth back, Claire entered the room. "Is something wrong, boys?" She was pulling off gardening gloves; she had obviously been outside.

Dave finally spoke up. "My nose started to bleed, but John helped."

John got up from his crouch. "I heard crying, so I came to investigate. I hope that's alright."

"Of course it's alright," Claire said, crossing the room in three steps and peering at Dave, putting her hand gently on his head. "Did you hit your head, honey?"

"No." Dave shook his head again. "It just started, but I think it's stopped now."

Claire gently titled his head up by the chin, so she could get a good look at his nose. "Why, I think it has," she smiled brightly, and Dave couldn't help but smile back. Even Little John relaxed, though his hand stayed on Dave's shoulder.

She turned to John. "Thank you, John. I'm glad we have you here," she said, smiling, and kissed Dave on the top of the head.

John looked away. "Glad to be here," he said.

 

****

 

John had just gone to the kitchen for a glass of water when Patrick Sheppard walked through the door.

Now _he_ was just as John remembered him. He was younger, of course, his hair closer to blonde than to silver. He had the same build, though, like Dave's -- more suited for football than swimming, or track and field. His jaw was still just as square, and to John's mind, just as hard. He was slightly thinner than John remembered him being, though it's not like that surprised John. His father had always been fit. It was still surprising that something as ordinary as a heart attack had felled him.

If Patrick was surprised to see John standing in his kitchen, he didn't look it. He merely smiled and held out his hand. "You must be John. Patrick Sheppard."

John took the offered hand. The shake was firm and short, just as John expected. "Nice to meet you, sir," John said. Unlike Claire Sheppard's dismissal of the word "ma'am," Patrick didn't even comment on the "sir."

"Good to meet you as well. I've heard all about you." Patrick went to the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of lemonade.

"Have you now?" John forced himself to keep his voice nice and even.

"Of course. Claire has mentioned how good you are at your work, and with the boys. And our John talks about you constantly."

"Does he?"

Patrick filled a glass. "All the time. I think you might have a case of hero worship on your hands."

"Well. There are worse things." John tilted his head.

"Indeed," Patrick said, putting the pitcher back into the fridge.

"Patrick!" Claire's voice was unmistakable as she came into the kitchen. She sounded genuinely pleased, and John had to look away as she and Patrick kissed hello. "What are you doing home so early?"

"I had a meeting that got out early, so I decided to come home early. Where are the boys?"

"John's at swimming and Dave is at baseball practice."

"Do you want me to pick them up?"

"Do you mind? They would love that," Claire replied.

John watched the ordinary domestic scene with what he hoped was concealed surprise; this was not the Patrick Sheppard he knew. Or at least not the one he remembered. He remembered General Patrick William Sheppard, U.S. Army. Decorated and celebrated a hero; joined the Pentagon before the age of 40. A legend in his own time, his colleagues used to say. Eldest son of the Pennsylvania Sheppards, who by all accounts should have run for political office, and who did eventually run the family business. The Patrick Sheppard who ran his own house like boot camp, and treated his youngest son, at least, like a new recruit.

 _They would love that_. John's chest tightened when he realized that at eight, yes, he would have.

"Sure," Patrick said. "I'll just go change first." He kissed his wife again and left the kitchen.

 _Sure_ , John thought. Smooth and easy.

****

Usually when he got back to Atlantis the city was quiet, dark and hushed as most of the staff slept, and the staff on duty whispered. John made sure he left at night, and it was always night when he returned.

It was a little earlier this time, but no less quiet. John passed more staff in the hall, that was all, and if they noticed the sawdust on his pants, they didn't say anything. The ocean was gently sloshing outside, a rhythm of waves and crests, and Atlantis fairly hummed underneath his feet.

John's quarters, however, were slightly less peaceful, what with Rodney McKay standing directly in his space the second John entered.

"Are you _insane_?" Rodney hissed. John didn't know that it was possible to sound that pissed and still be whispering at the same time.

He opened his mouth to speak but Rodney beat him to it. "Seriously, have you hit your head? Did you get a head wound I don't know about? Did you develop amnesia? Mysterious off-world device scramble your brain? Or are you really just that _stupid_?"

" _Hey_ ," John said. "No using the word stupid."

"Okay, let's perform a test," Rodney said. "What day is it?"

John thought. The device had never brought him back on a different day, or at a different time, than when he had left. "Tuesday?" he ventured.

"Is that a _question_?" Rodney asked.

John rolled his eyes. "No. It's Tuesday."

"Well, congratulations, you got one. It's Tuesday. Do you remember _at all_ what was supposed to happen this Tuesday?"

John knew what had happened this Tuesday. He had spent the first part of the morning after breakfast on backlogged mission reports, then about an hour exchanging information with Lorne. After that was senior staff, which lasted two hours, then lunch, then three hours of emailing back and forth with the SGC about supplies, which was a huge waste of his time. He'd skipped dinner, and then he'd arrived back in Atlantis after spending a day in Virginia.

He was about to tell Rodney all of this, except for the part about using a time travel device to go back to his childhood home, when he got a glimpse of his room beyond Rodney's shoulder.

" _Shit_ ," John said.

"I see it's coming back to you," Rodney hissed.

"Listen, Rodney," John started.

"You know, I'm not sure I even want to know," Rodney said, raising a hand to stop John. "I don't want to know what could possibly make you either too stupid or too memory impaired to remember that we were supposed to babysit for Teyla tonight. At least _one_ of us held up our end of the bargain." Rodney folded his arms.

John quietly walked around Rodney to the portable crib Ronon had fashioned. Torren was fast asleep, his small butt in the air as he slept on his stomach, softly blowing the occasional spit bubble. John gently put his hand on the baby's back. His pajamas were soft, the heat from his body warming the palm of John's hand.

"He's asleep, Rodney."

"Of course he's _asleep_ , Sheppard." Rodney tilted his chin up. "He's been asleep since he's been here."

Then if this wasn't about not being there to help take care of the baby . . . John sighed. They had agreed to babysit for Teyla, hang out in John's quarters. John took another look around. There was a cooler filled with part of Rodney's hard won stash of beer, and two bowls, one filled with popcorn, the other with potato chips. Various fun size candy bar wrappers were scattered around the edge of the bed; Rodney had obviously eaten the candy itself while waiting for John. He even saw Parrish's much beloved Wii plugged into the t.v. and DVD player combo that John kept around to watch movies. John wondered vaguely what Rodney had had to promise Parrish to get the console for the night. John rubbed the heel of his hand into his right eye.

He opened his mouth, but once again Rodney beat him to the punch. "It's one thing." Rodney stopped. "It's one thing if you don't want to see me. I get it. I get it." Rodney held up a hand to keep John from speaking. "And if you're seeing someone, that's great. It really is." _Seeing someone_? John thought. What did that even mean? Did Rodney think he was dating someone?

Before John could ask, Rodney continued. "But I never thought you'd let Teyla down." John grimaced. It was _one night_. And Rodney had been there. Teyla . . . well. Teyla would probably be disappointed with him, and for some reason that was really not something John wanted to happen.

"She doesn't know, by the way," Rodney kept on. "I mean, when she dropped him off and you weren't here I told her you were just on your way. You'll be here when she gets back, so. I guess it'll be fine." Rodney's mouth was a thin line that said to John that it would be anything but fine.

"Look, Rodney, I --" John tried, but Rodney had already turned away.

Rodney held up a hand as he headed to the door. "You know what, I don't think I want to know. Really, Sheppard. I don't," he said, sounding as tired as John felt. He swiped the door release and left.

John sat down on the end of his bed and sighed while Torren let out a little snore in his corner of the room.

 

****

John was out working in the yard when Little John approached. John didn't hear him coming; he was using the circular saw to cut wood for the frames when Little John suddenly appeared in front of him.

"Whoa, buddy," John said, turning the saw off and taking off his goggles. "Easy there."

"'Msorry," Little John mumbled. John noticed right away that he was acting differently, almost shyly. He barely looked up at John, never mind meeting his eyes.

"No problem, little man. Just didn't want you to get hurt, sneaking up on me like that." John took off his gloves and went over to the other side of the platform so that he could talk to the boy. "Is something up?"

"No, well." Little John took a deep breath. "Here." He handed John a folded white piece of construction paper.

John opened the paper to messy elementary school cursive. Written in pencil were a date, time, and there was a small blue patch on the bottom left hand corner. John squinted, then ventured, "Okay, well . . ."

Little John interrupted. "It's. Um. It's an invitation to my swim meet. I made it myself."

"Did you now?" John bit his lip, in part to hide a smile.

"Mommy said an invitation would only be polite."

"Uh-huh."

"I. So. Can you come?" Little John blurted.

This time John couldn't keep his smile from showing. He peered at the invitation. "Three weeks, huh?" He glanced at the invitation again; the handwriting was almost indecipherable, which John's handwriting still was as an adult. "At ten in the morning?"

The boy nodded.

"Sure. Yep. I think I can make it."

Little John's grin was almost blinding. "Cool! Uh. Yeah."

"Yeah, cool." John nodded. "Thanks for the invitation, buddy."

"Okay. I mean, you're welcome. See you later!" Little John bounced on the balls of his feet once and then scampered off, running around the side of the house.

John looked at the piece of paper in his hand. "Yeah," he said softly. "See you later."

 

****

The conference room was oddly silent, the only sound the soft hum of Rodney's open laptop. The fan on the computer was running awfully loudly; John thought absently that someone should probably check that out.

Sam started. "Colonel, no one here thinks you are responsible --"

John felt his jaw tighten even more, so hard that his teeth ground together. "With all due respect, _Colonel_ , that ambush was completely preventable."

"I disagree." Sam's lips tightened. "There's no way you could have known . . ."

"Save your breath, Sam," Rodney said, speaking suddenly. John was perversely glad to hear Rodney's voice. He'd been exceptionally quiet on the way back from MY7-L98, and obviously shaken by Ronon's injuries. John straightened up in his chair. McKay was certain to read him the riot act, and none too soon -- it was about time someone did. He made himself look at Rodney's face.

"Rodney --" Sam tried.

"No, really. Don't bother. The Colonel here isn't going to believe that he wasn't at fault here, so you might as well be talking to a brick wall. And in this case, he's actually right."

"What is that supposed to mean, McKay?" John asked, leaning forward in his chair. He saw Teyla shift slightly toward him in her chair out of the corner of his eye.

Only Rodney could fill a sigh with so much scorn. "I _mean_ , Sheppard, that you're going to take everyone's attempts to reassure you and completely block them out, especially as they are wrong, so we should all just take Keller at her word that Ronon's fine and go visit him in the infirmary." He paused. "If you're not too busy wallowing in self-pity, that is."

If John thought the room was quiet before, he could _feel_ the tension wash over each person at the table now. "It's not self-pity, McKay," John grit out between his teeth.

"No?"

"No." John looked across the table at Rodney. "And I don't need you or anyone else telling me what went wrong on that mission."

"Of course not, because a _child_ could have seen the ambush the settlers set up for us on our way out a mile away."

"Rodney," Teyla started. "We are all upset that Ronon was wounded, but there's no need --"

"Do you think I don't know that, McKay?" John asked, talking over Teyla. "I made a mistake. I miscalculated and one of my team members ended up with a bullet in his leg. _I get it_."

"Damn right you made a mistake," Rodney agreed. "You know what went wrong on that mission? You."

"That's enough, Doctor McKay," Sam said firmly.

Rodney ignored her. "He doesn't need us to sit around the table and try to make him feel better. There's no reason to stroke either the Colonel's ego or his martyrdom."

"I said that's enough, Rodney," Sam said again. "We're not here to assign blame."

"Maybe we should be," Rodney said, lifting his chin.

Sam opened her mouth to say something, but John didn't hear what it was. The fact was, McKay was right. He _was_ what had gone wrong on that mission. Tired and distracted, he had allowed his fatigue to get the better of him; it had gotten his team in danger and Ronon injured. He had failed those in his charge.

Suddenly John slammed his hand down on the table, barely noticing the others jump at the force. " _Fuck_ ," he said, and walked out of the room. Carter could file the paper work. She could also reprimand him later for storming out of a meeting. Right now, John was going to go down to talk to Keller and make sure he was there when Ronon woke up.

****

It was only going to be one more time.

It wasn't just something John told himself; it was true. He just wanted to say goodbye.

As usual, it was a dark, quiet night in Atlantis. Even the city seemed to know that John was in no mood for company. The lights in the hallway were low, barely lighting his path. He made his way to the lab more from memory than from sight. It was only once he reached the storage bins that he realized he wasn't the only person who was awake in Atlantis.

The thing was, Rodney didn't even say anything, just stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth a thin line. The silence was unnerving. John couldn't even hear Atlantis' usual background him. To John's surprise, Rodney turned around, reached down, and took out the bin with transporter device.

"So, what does it do?" Rodney asked, almost conversationally.

"Rodney --"

"No, I'm genuinely interested, Sheppard. What does it do? I'd go with some sort of sexual function, but that seems so pedestrian, even for you."

John sighed. "Just. It's not important, McKay."

"Not important? You come here almost every night, don't you?"

John raised his eyebrows. "How do you know that?"

"So you don't even try to deny it," Rodney said.

"Why bother?" John shrugged. "You clearly know already."

Rodney opened the lid of the container. "Interesting move. I would have expected more adamant denial coming from you."

"Rodney. Just put the device away and let's go. I won't use it again."

"I don't care if you use it again or not. I just want to know what's so important that it's a bigger priority than Atlantis."

John took an involuntary step back. " _What_?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. You are certainly not that obtuse, no matter how much you try to hide it under all that hair."

John's mouth opened, but closed again just as quickly. "I. Nothing is more important to me than Atlantis."

"Honestly, Sheppard. Six months ago that might have been true, but not now."

John straightened his spine. "Atlantis always comes first."

Rodney snorted.

"Who are you to question my loyalty to this mission?" John asked, suddenly angry.

"Don't think that a good offense is the best defense, Colonel," Rodney snapped. He picked the device up out if its storage bin and cradled it in his palm. It did nothing in his hand -- didn't light up, or make any noise, just sat there, dark and quiet. Rodney held it out to John.

"I'm not taking that from you, McKay."

"What? The tech or the backtalk?"

John's mouth tightened. "Either."

"Get off your soapbox, John. You can't cow me into submission like you do your military grunts." Then Rodney lobbed the device at John, who had to make the split second decision whether to catch it or let it fall to the floor.

John caught it.

It started to glow a bright yellow in his hand before he could even think about telling the device not to work, or not to go on, or not to do anything. He looked up at Rodney, slightly panicked.

Rodney's face was full of nothing but disdain.

John reached out and grabbed Rodney by the wrist. The last thing he saw before everything went black was the widening of McKay's eyes.

****

Traveling with another person was different than traveling alone. For one, the landing was harder. He and McKay landed on the back lawn in a heap, a tangle of limbs and bruised ribs. For another, it wasn't at all quiet: Rodney started bitching as soon as they hit the ground.

"What the _hell_ , Sheppard?"

John looked around quickly. "Shut up. Just shut up. For once in your life, McKay, just close your mouth for two damn seconds."

Rodney was scrambling to his feet, already brushing himself off and checking for injuries. "Oh, that's nice, Colonel. Tell me to shut up. God only knows where we are, and you're already barking orders."

John stood up and got right in Rodney's personal space. "I'm telling you, be quiet. Just --" John heard the back door open and shut, and he closed his eyes for a moment. So much for getting out of here before something incredibly bad happened. "Let me do the talking." Rodney's mouth opened in what was no doubt a protest. "And don't call me Sheppard. Or Colonel," he added.

John turned around to face the house and see who had come out to greet them. It was Claire.

"John!" she called, smiling and waving a hand at John and Rodney.

"Who is that?" Rodney asked. Rodney's head shot from side to side. "And where are we, anyway?"

"Just." John held up a hand. "Let me do the talking."

"As if -- " Rodney started.

But Claire had already reached them, stopping in front of them and wiping her hands on a tea towel. "Good morning, John," she said. "There's coffee in the kitchen if you want it." She looked at Rodney.

"Uh. Thanks, Claire." He paused. "This is Rodney McKay. He's . . . a member of my team." John looked sideways at Rodney, who had his mouth open, but had yet to speak.

Claire's face lit up with a smile. "Hello, Rodney. Nice to meet you."

"I'm sure it's very nice to meet you, too, whoever you are, but as it so happens I'm not really interested --"

"Rodney's an engineer," John interrupted.

"That's great," Claire said, holding a hand out for Rodney to shake. Rodney took it reluctantly, shook it, and then not-so-subtly wiped his palm on his pants. Thankfully, in John's estimation Claire looked more amused than insulted. "I take it you're going to be helping John on the job?"

"The job?" Rodney asked, voice pitched in the way he had when tribal chiefs asked him to do something particularly distasteful.

"Yes, Rodney, the job," John said. "I'm doing some work on Claire's house."

"Oh, well isn't that _lovely_ ," Rodney said, sarcasm poured through every word. He paused. "Wait. Wait wait wait wait wait. Wait. You're sneaking off to do a _construction job_? Are you kidding me? Is this some kind of fever dream? Oh. My. God. Have I been shot? Is this all a delusion? Am I hallucinating?" Rodney took a breath. "A construction job, for Christ's sake?"

John held up a finger to Rodney. "Can you just? For, like, five seconds?"

"I have been shot, haven't I? Oh, God, Keller's going to have to do the surgery. She's nice and all, but she's no Carson in the operating room and --"

John pointed his finger at Rodney. "You have not been shot. Okay? You are fine. I realize this is a foreign concept to you, but you need to relax here for about minute or so, you got that?"

Claire was looking back and forth between John and Rodney. "Do you two need a minute?"

"I. Yes." John looked from Rodney to Claire. "Yes, I think we do. Rodney can be a little . . . " about a dozen alternatives floated through John's mind. "High strung," John settled on. "He's brilliant, a great engineer, but sometimes he has trouble adjusting to new jobs." John threw Rodney the glare he'd learned the first time he had to chew out a younger officer. Which, predictably, only made Rodney scowl, not cower in fear. Then he shrugged for Claire's benefit, trying to convey, _but he's amazing, so what can you do_ through the rise and fall of his shoulders.

Claire looked a little skeptical, but nodded. A rather kind but reasonable reaction to Rodney McKay, John thought.

"Sure," Claire said. "The boys are both out at day camp right now, so you're welcome to start the paint on their rooms today, if that works for you." John nodded.

Claire shot a look at Rodney. "It's nice to meet you, Rodney," she ventured.

Rodney waved a hand at her. "Yes, yes. It's nice to meet you, too, Claire . . . ." Rodney deliberately trailed off.

 

"Oh, right. We haven't been properly introduced, have we? I'm Claire, Claire Sheppard."

This time, Rodney opened his mouth, but didn't say anything, just gaped. He looked from Claire, to John, and then to Claire again. He took in Claire's face, her eyes, her features, and then his gaze settled onto John, cataloging his face from his hair to his chin.

" _Oh. My. God_ ," Rodney said, starting to draw an even bigger breath.

John grabbed Rodney's arm by the bicep, hard enough to draw an "Ow," out of Rodney, derailing him slightly from whatever rant he was going to start into. "We're going to head out by the pool for just a second," he said to Claire before dragging Rodney back around the side of the house.

John maneuvered Rodney into the shady spot by the wall of the pool area, hoping to get him out of hearing range. He'd heard Rodney rant on more occasions than anyone could count, but this was going to be a doozy. Maybe they'd be able to hear it through time and space back on Atlantis. John waited, breathing a little heavily through his nose from pulling Rodney as quickly as possible.

But Rodney was silent. And was silent. And was silent. For long moments, the only sound was their breathing and the small ripples the breeze was making in the pool water. John shuffled his feet; Rodney was unnerving him.

"Look -- " John finally said.

Rodney only frowned in response.

"Okay. Look. We'll just use the device, go back to Atlantis. That'll be it."

Rodney still didn't speak.

John snapped. "God, Rodney, you make more noise when there aren't any muffins for breakfast, for Christ's sake --"

Rodney interrupted by, of all things, pointing.

"What?

Rodney jabbed a little with his finger.

" _What_?" John snapped.

Rodney made a frustrated sound and grabbed the Ancient device out of John's hand. John's hand, where it had been throughout the last few minutes. Rodney grabbed John's wrist, forced John's palm out flat in front of him, and put the device back in John's hand.

Where it stayed the dull metallic gray of it's natural color and did nothing at all.

John looked at it for a moment while Rodney made a noise that sounded like he was being strangled. John thought, _Atlantis, Atlantis, Atlantis_ as hard as he could, and, frankly, as frantically as he could. But nothing happened.

" _Shit_ ," John said. He looked up at Rodney. "Maybe it's just on hold for a minute."

"Or maybe you drained all of the power, you fucking idiot," Rodney finally said, perhaps a little too loudly. John winced.

"Hey!" John said. "There's no reason --"

"There's no reason? There's no reason?" Rodney repeated, sounding slightly hysterical to John. John had heard Rodney sound slightly hysterical in a fake way before, but never sincerely. He didn't like it _at all_.

"There's no reason?" Rodney said again. "No reason to what? Panic? Marvel at the wonder that is your tiny lizard brain? Reason out that we are totally, completely _fucked_?"

"Look. We are not fucked," John answered. He paused. "And I don't have a tiny lizard brain."

"Oh my God, _that's_ what you're choosing to focus on right now? Not that we're stuck in your own insane Oedipal nightmare?"

"Keep your voice down," John hissed.

"I. Keep my voice down? Keep my voice down?" Rodney's voice only got louder, and the gesticulating started, his hand flailing out wildly, nearly hitting John in the eye. "Where the _hell_ are we, Sheppard?"

" _Don't call me Sheppard_ ," John started. "I told you that."

"Well excuse me if I forgot, after you _introduced me to your mother_ , you imbecile," Rodney shouted.

John looked around, but no one was outside, or seemed to be paying attention. "She's not --"

Rodney rolled his eyes so hard John was momentarily afraid they would get stuck in the back of his eye socket. "Do not even _try_ to lie about that one, _John_ ," he said. He started counting on his fingers. "You have the same name; you have the same eyes; you clearly inherited her facial structure, especially the cheekbones; the chin is extremely similar; and, God help me, you even seem to have the same hair. Hell, the freckles across the bridge of your nose are exactly the same!"

"I have freckles?" John asked. "On my nose?"

"Oh for Christ's sake, _focus_ , you flyboy flunky!"

"Right. Listen. The device will work again shortly, and we'll go home."

"Stop trying to fix this by distracting me with Atlantis," Rodney snapped. "How did I just get introduced to your mother? Besides which, Ancient devices just don't power back all on their own. They need chargers. Or, failing that, actual _Ancients_."

John decided to address Rodney's question first, instead of what was starting to look like their inevitable power problem. "I. I don't know how I get here. Somehow the device just brings me here."

"Where is here?"

"Um. My parent's house in Virginia." John paused, grimacing. "In 1976."

" _1976_?" Rodney shouted.

"God, McKay, keep it down!"

"The . . . the. Whatever that is, it sends you through time and space?"

"Apparently," John said.

"Apparently. Apparently," Rodney repeated scornfully. "Well. _Yes, apparently_ , Sheppard. Jesus." Rodney took a breath. "The implications of this on the metaphysics of time travel and wormhole physics are . . . _Jesus_."

"It doesn't seem to change anything," John said.

"What?"

John shrugged a little. "It doesn't seem to change anything. I always arrive back on Atlantis at the exact same time I left. I've timed it. It's down to almost a hundredth of a second. And here, even if it takes me days to get back, no one says anything. It's like I just slip in and out of this world. I don't even remember myself being here. I mean, all my memories are the same."

Rodney's mouth hung open. "You've met yourself?"

John had the good grace to look a little ashamed. "Yes."

Rodney's hands started to move in their own independent patterns. " _God_." He took a breath. "Do you even realize. Do you have the remotest clue about how enormous an influence you could be having on past, present and future events? The energy spent must be massive to transport you between two galaxies and more than thirty years."

"Said by a man who learned everything he knows about time travel from _Doctor Who_ ," John said.

Rodney's eyes narrowed. He pointed at himself. "Astrophysicist, _asshole_ ," he said.

"I'm sure it's fine," John said stubbornly.

Rodney snorted. "I'll just take your word for it, then," he said.

"Right."

"Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick," Rodney said. "You've stranded us in Virginia in 1976 with your _family_ using an Ancient device we know nothing about, which now appears to be out of power with no way to get any more, and we have no idea what affect all of this could be having on this, the Pegasus, or any other galaxy."

"Um," John said.

"What do you think we're going to do?" Rodney asked.

John thought. "I have some painting to do," he said.

Rodney was silent.

"You could help me," John offered.

Rodney sighed. "Or I could drown myself in the pool."

****

As it turned out, Rodney was actually really good at doing trim.

****  
It took them a few days to work out a plan.

At first they had mostly hung out and waited, hoping that the device would start to work again on its own. After five days, this had gotten them nowhere but a few nights sleep in a slightly sleazy motel and full of pizza. John was the first one to suggest renting an apartment; they needed some place to stay, but Rodney insisted that meant John was settling down, and John equally insisted that was not the case. John knew what Rodney was afraid of: that John would give up on getting back to Atlantis.

As if that wasn't exactly John's own fear.

But the truth was, John was a man used to not having a permanent home. He had more or less let the Air Force ship him around the country, and the world, for most of his adult life; Atlantis was the longest he'd ever been stationed in one place. He had slept in beds, on pallets, in bunks, on floors; he had been curled up with cold and sprawled out from heat.

All of that, though, seemed like it was for a purpose. The base, the plane, the chopper had been more of his home than his quarters, whether they were his rooms, his house, or his apartment. He was there to do a job, and that gave him a reason for being there.

But this, the hotel with the twin double beds and leaky faucet didn't have a purpose. It was a way station. It was, to John, _vagrancy_. It wasn't like he needed something permanent, something that was forever -- he'd never had that. But he did need something more than a vague sense of transition, of waiting. It felt too much like camping on an unknown and hostile world to John, and he was itching to at least have somewhere to _go_.

So he convinced Rodney that even if they left tomorrow, they needed an apartment. A permanent place to stay. Well, semi-permanent place to stay.

Rodney took him to a hardware store, first, where he bought $200 in seemingly unrelated items. (John's paychecks, cashed at Claire Sheppard's bank, were, apparently, at Rodney's disposal.) Rodney used some of them to rig up machines that made John grateful that Rodney wasn't prone to using his genius for evil. He dummied up fake i.d.s for both John and himself: driver's licenses, passports, even library cards. When John had raised his eyebrows at the last, Rodney had noted that a) he had to pass the time somehow and b) the more it looked like they belonged in this world, the better. John didn't argue.

They used the identification to get a bank account and an apartment. They rented a two-bedroom near the Sheppard house. It never occurred to them to get separate apartments; they were too used to living in tight quarters, on base together, to even think about the alternatives. Besides which, John realized that he was the only person Rodney knew here. They were connected to each other in ways no one else knew, and John owed it to Rodney to keep the other man close by. They were united in their uniqueness, their experiences, and their efforts to get back to Atlantis, and John wasn't about to abandon Rodney. For his part, Rodney never mentioned striking out on his own, and it didn't escape John that Rodney was, for all intents and purposes, keeping an eye on John.

For once, John didn't mind someone keeping tabs on him. He felt less able than ever to do it himself.

As for the other items from the hardware store, Rodney spent four days holed up in his room with them, coming out only for coffee, food, and for John to check the occasional proof. Meanwhile, John went to work, came home dirty, and ate condensed soup for dinner.

At the end of the four days, Rodney came into the living room and sighed, holding an oblong cradle in his hands. He set it on the cheap coffee table they had picked up at a garage sale the Sunday before and sat down next to John on the Sheppards' old sofa that Claire had given to John.

"It's not much, but it's the best I can do," Rodney said.

John was tempted to ask what, exactly, it was, but was worried that would only make McKay angry. So he didn't say anything.

Rodney sighed louder, and pulled the Ancient device, which they had taken to calling the TARDIS, out of his pocket. It remained silent and dark in his palm. He handed it to John, and it still didn't light up. John looked at it closely.

"Put it in there," Rodney said, indicating the contraption he'd brought out of his room.

John peered at the machine. "Is that a paper clip?" he asked.

"Shut up and put the TARDIS in the thing," Rodney said. "The area you pointed out is a transporter for radial electrical current." John looked at him. "Yes, and it's a paper clip," he added. "It's fucking _1976_."

John shrugged and gently tucked the TARDIS into the machine. For a minute, nothing seemed to happen. Rodney chewed on his lip anxiously.

Then, very faintly, John heard a hum. A hum that certainly had not been there before. Nothing lit up, or started moving much, and the TARDIS certainly didn't begin to glow, but it was humming, the cradle vibrating just slightly from the effort.

"You built a charger?" John asked.

Rodney shrugged. "Only a very, very, _very_ primitive one. I'm not really sure it'll do any good; I'm not sure even the best equipment we had on Atlantis would do any good. But." He stopped. "I had to try."

John nodded. "I miss it too, Rodney."

Rodney hummed non-commitally.

"I _do_ ," he said.

Rodney didn't answer. "Do you think they . . ." he trailed off.

"I'm not even sure they know we're gone," John said.

"Great," Rodney said quietly. They both sat looking at the charger for a long while.  
****

John went to wake Rodney up that Saturday morning at 7:00 a.m. Rodney was in his bed, but sprawled on top of the covers on his back, one arm under his head, the other clutching the top of his pillow. His legs were sprawled, one sock rucked up from when Rodney had tossed and turned in the night. He was wearing a pair of blue and green striped boxers and a black t-shirt with the white socks. John contemplated him for a moment, wondering what kind of person would wear socks to bed in Virginia in the summer. He sighed, knowing there was no good way to do this. Even on missions where he was eager to get back to Atlantis Rodney was hard to wake up; even the most uncomfortable conditions didn't make him any more of a morning person, or any easier to rouse.

"Rodney," John said, poking Rodney in the chest with a finger, hard.

Rodney swatted briefly at John's hand and then settled back into the comforter.

" _Rodney_ ," John tried again, this time shaking his shoulder. Rodney moaned and rolled over onto his stomach.

"McKay," John said loudly. "There are three ZPMs behind that lovely blonde."

Rodney muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I'll get to that later," but otherwise didn't move.

John sighed, reached over, and pinched Rodney firmly on the ass.

Rodney startled. "God _damn_ you, Sheppard," he said, lifting his head.

"How'd you know it was me?" John grinned.

"Just a guess. You only wake me up like that all the time off-world."

"Are you saying I make it a habit to pinch your ass?"

Rodney glared at him. "It's too early in the morning to have this conversation."

John grinned and shrugged. "Could be Ronon those times."

"If it were Ronon, I'd have to marry him," Rodney said, yawning.

John stared.

"What? It's Sateda tradition," Rodney grumped.

"Okay."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah. Get up." John handed Rodney the cup of coffee he'd been saving just for this moment.

"Why?" Rodney seemed to be thinking. "It's Saturday." He sat up in order to drink the coffee better.

"We have a swim meet to go to," John answered.

Rodney eyed him warily over the rim of the mug. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"The meet? I'm sure it'll be okay."

"You know what I mean. Idiot. _Why_ we're going to a swim meet at the asscrack of God's dawn on a Saturday."

John shrugged.

Rodney sighed. "Get out."

"Okay," John said.

"And stop pinching my ass!" Rodney called after John.

"But it's just so irresistible," John said from the doorway, smirking, walking out of the room just in time to avoid Rodney's pillow.

****

After an hour on the bus that mostly consisted of Rodney pontificating on why his sudden and painful yearning for Starbucks (that overpriced sludge) was inexplicable, they finally arrived at the aquatic center. Claire Sheppard spotted them first and waved them over to a spot in the bleachers.

"Oh, I'm so glad you could come," she said. "John will be so pleased."

John smiled but Rodney said, "I'm sure he will be," and threw John a brief glare as they sat down.

Patrick and David were also there, and John made the introductions. "Dave, this is Rodney. Rodney, this is -- " John stopped just short of using the words _my father_. _My father, Patrick Sheppard._ Always with the relationship attached, and sometimes with the title, _General_ , John realized. Never just Patrick. And certainly never just _Dad_.

John tried again. "This is Patrick Sheppard."

Patrick gave Rodney a scrutinizing once-over that no one missed. Rodney, however, not only didn't shrink under it, but countered it with an appraising gaze of his own. John wasn't quite sure why that surprised him: if anyone could stand up to Patrick Sheppard, it would be Rodney McKay.

"How interesting to meet you, Mr. Sheppard," Rodney said.

Patrick raised an eyebrow, but didn't correct Rodney about his title. John released a breath he didn't even know he was holding. "Likewise," Patrick said.

"Yes, well, I hate to interrupt, but John's heat is about to start," Claire said, pointing to the pool. Indeed, there were about a dozen boys lined up on their blocks. Little John stood out with his unruly hair -- as well as his unruly smile and wave toward the stands. Claire waved back, grinning, while David mostly looked embarrassed to be there at all. John heard Patrick's slight sigh, no doubt at the vulgarity of his family.

"My God, the hair is _the same_ ," Rodney said, earning himself an elbow to the ribs from John.

"Oh, please, like that's not impossible under every law of physics," Rodney defended himself.

John glared, and as he turned to face forward, managed to catch the same glare on Patrick Sheppard's face, also directed toward Rodney. John's stomach clenched.

****

They met Little John just outside the locker rooms, the entire group of them huddled into an alcove near the hallway. He came out dressed but still a little wet, hair dripping into the collar of his t-shirt. Claire met him with a hug and a ruffle of his hair.

"Well done, John. We are so proud of you!" she said while Little John attempted to squirm out of her grasp. He finally managed it, his two medals clinking together where they hung around his neck.

"Thanks, Mom," he said, slightly out of breath, though from the swimming or the attempt at evading his mother, John couldn't tell. As much as Little John tried to look embarrassed, he was obviously pleased, a grin tugging at his mouth.

"What do you want to say, David?" Claire said, affectionately pushing her oldest son's shoulder a little.

"Good job, John," Dave said, with the hesitancy of a big brother, but with no hidden malice. Little John nodded in response, smiling.

There was a slight pause in the congratulations, as if no one was sure who would go next. John stepped up to fill the gap.

"Hey, buddy! Congratulations," John said, offering his hand palm out for a high-five, which Little John promptly gave him with a grin.

"You came!" Little John exclaimed.

"Of course -- wouldn't have missed it," John answered. "You were the star of the team."

Little John blushed. "Uh. Thanks."

John caught Claire's smile out of the corner of his eye, and heard Rodney shuffle slightly next to him. "Oh, hey, this is my friend Rodney," John said.

"Yeah. Oh, hi," Little John looked up at Rodney, while Rodney looked back and forth between the Johns.

"Right. Hi. Hello. Um. Good swimming today," Rodney managed. John rolled his eyes.

"Thanks," Little John said, ducking his head slightly.

"John," Patrick said softly, though it was clearly a command. Little John looked up at his father.

"Yes, sir?"

"You did do a good job today, son," he said. "But not a great job."

John's hands involuntarily clenched into fists; he shoved them into the pockets of his jeans. He caught Rodney's wide-eyed stare, while Claire opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again.

"Yes, sir."

"Silver medals, John, second place. You're a winner, John Sheppard-- you could have done better."

Little John blushed again, but for what John suspected was a completely different reason than before. "Yes, sir," the boy said again.

"Next time," Patrick said. It wasn't an assurance or a suggestion -- it was an order.

"Right," Little John said, voice full of a little boy's promises.

Claire put a hand on her husband's arm and turned to John and Rodney. "We're going to have lunch at the little Italian place down the street. We'd love to have you join us."

John and Rodney exchanged a glance; John caught Rodney's nearly imperceptible shrug. "Sure. Um, yes. We'd be pleased," John answered.

Claire smiled at them and put her arm around Little John's shoulders, while keeping her other hand on Patrick's forearm. "Excellent," she said, expertly steering all of her family members toward the door.

John and Rodney followed at a distance.

"So," Rodney said quietly, almost conversationally. "Your father was an asshole."

"Yeah," John said, his fists still in his pockets.

****

Lunch had gone surprisingly smoothly, at least in John's estimation. True, smoothly in this case might have meant that there were no showdowns, no gauntlets thrown, no yelling; John had been expecting the worst, so getting the ordinary could be categorized as relief.

He and McKay had been seated together, though through the set up of the table that meant Rodney was closer to the children, and John closer to the adults. John had spent most of the time chatting with Claire; she was taking an art course that she was enthusiastic about, though she was self-admittedly a poor artist.

"Honestly," she had said at John's polite protests, with a laugh and a shrug. "I think my boys could do better, but it's fun."

John had shared some clipped words with Patrick, mostly about the upcoming college football season, which John didn't remember but knew the statistics about. Patrick was, inexplicably, an Ohio State fan, which only served to remind John exactly why he'd always rooted for Michigan.

Rodney did remarkably well talking mostly with David and John, entertaining them with tales of devices from the future, which sounded to John mostly like the Nintendo Wii and the original Donkey Kong. For a man who spent a lot of time worrying about changing the future by their presence, Rodney had no problem discussing electronic games with the ten and under set.

For a long time before dessert was served Rodney and Little John had their heads bent over the table together, using the crayons and tracing paper that had been given to the children to amuse themselves to draw some sort of contraption that John couldn't identify. Dave would sometimes pipe up with a question or correction, even leading Rodney to scribble out a few new equations in blue crayola.

John insisted on paying half of the check, over both Claire and Patrick's sincere protests. Claire's were out of politeness and propriety, while Patrick's were out of something like insult -- he could certainly provide for his family, as well as two random guests. John continued to insist at least in part because it galled Patrick, and he felt no small level of satisfaction when Patrick finally consented, as well as no little amount of shame at the satisfaction, knowing just how petty it was.

Patrick had finally taken to addressing Rodney while they were waiting for the change from the bill, asking after his family, his education, his work history. Rodney was surprisingly straightforward and honest, claiming the two Ph.D.s he would earn years later, as well as some of his various fellowships and teaching positions. The problem was, the more Rodney answered, the more Patrick interrogated, clearly interested in something that John couldn't quite put his finger on, but that Rodney seemed both to recognize and see as a challenge he could meet head on. He answered everything with calm, confidence, a smooth flair that John had only rarely seen; his abrasiveness hadn't disappeared, of course, but it seemed strangely suited to Patrick Sheppard's aggressive pushing.

It was unsurprisingly Claire who finally put a stop to the questioning, as well as the arrival of the change Patrick could put in his pocket. John had the vague feeling that Rodney had somehow won whatever pissing contest had been going on between the two men, and he couldn't help but feel good about that, no matter, again, how petty that might have made him.

The first part of the bus ride home was quiet, at least according to Rodney McKay standards. Rodney had rattled on about the lemon that had arrived in his first glass of water, and how he should probably see a doctor here about epipens just in case. This went on until John reminded Rodney that John always carried at least three on him at all times -- two in his tac vest, which was still on Atlantis, and one in the pocket of his BDU's, which John had been wearing at the time of their traveling -- so they had at least one.

In fact, John still always carried it in his pants pocket out of habit, at least when he knew he'd be around McKay, and he fished it out of his left back pocket to prove it.

"Oh," Rodney said, mouth hanging slightly open and expression unreadable.

"Yeah," John said lazily, sliding the syringe back into his pocket. They'd been on the bus for a while, and after the big lunch, he was feeling sleepy. "Force of habit and all of that."

"Right," Rodney said, pulling at the knee of his pants. He pursed his lips, which was McKay for trying to decide whether or not to say something. John almost smiled -- it wasn't an expression that was on Rodney's face very often.

"What?" John asked.

Rodney eyed him speculatively. "Nothing," he decided.

"No, what?" John asked again, picking his head up from where it was leaning on the railing behind him. "Seriously, what is it?"

Rodney bit his lip.

"Okay, now I'm scared. Am I dying? Did my father admit he was declaring war on Canada? Did ordering the lasagna accidentally erase my future existence?"

"That erasing your existence thing isn't funny," Rodney said.

John looked at him. " _Rodney_."

Rodney looked annoyed. "Jesus Christ, don't whine."

"So tell me."

Rodney sighed. "Your father couldn't figure out what we're doing together."

John thought for a minute. "Okay."

"Me, two doctorates, brilliant career, here in Virginia being buddies with some worker of manual odd-jobs."

"Also Lieutenant Colonel in the U.S. Air Force and military commander of an expedition in an alien galaxy."

"Yes, well," Rodney practically huffed, " _he_ doesn't know that. Or that as Chief Science Officer I'm invaluable to that mission. Or that we're stuck here thanks to some wacky alien hijinks and are just waiting to go back to the lost city of said wacky aliens, Atlantis."

John smiled slightly. "That, too." He looked at Rodney. "So did he come to any conclusions?"

Rodney looked away.

John frowned. "Rodney."

Rodney sighed again. "He thinks we're gay."

"As in . . ." John trailed off.

"As in carefree and happy, the friends of talking chipmunks," Rodney snapped.

"McKay --"

"As in the sex has got to be mind-blowing because why else would I be tagging along with you, Sheppard."

John was quiet for a long moment. Finally he said, "And?"

"And what?" Rodney said.

"And that's it?"

"What do you mean, 'that's it'?" Rodney asked.

"I mean, is that all?"

Rodney stared. "You don't have a problem with that?"

"Do you?" John asked.

"I'd prefer your father didn't assume that I only think with my dick, but I don't care who he thinks I sleep with, male, female, whatever."

"Whatever?"

"You know what I mean," Rodney snapped. "And you didn't answer my question."

John shrugged, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said flatly, "I'm used to it. My father's been thinking that about me for years."

Rodney snorted. "And you never disabused him of that notion?"

John's lips thinned together. "He never actually said anything, and I never actually answered. The original Don't Ask, Don't Tell."

John could see Rodney's brain working. "But --"

"The best I could do was get married."

"That didn't convince him?"

John sighed. "It didn't convince me."

"Oh," Rodney said. "Oh."

"I had that non-argument about it with him for twenty years, right up until he died." John sighed. "Neither one of us could admit that he was right. For all kinds of reasons." He looked at Rodney. "So I'm kind of used to him thinking I'm gay, yeah." He shrugged again.

"Oh," Rodney said again "Well."

"Yeah."

"How did I not know this about you?" Rodney blurted out.

John looked out the window. "I don't tell."

"But," Rodney started, and then paused. He took a deep breath.

John continued to look out the window, feeling Rodney's gaze on him, but he didn't turn back, and Rodney didn't say anything else for the rest of the ride home.

****

Rodney started coming to work with John more often. He helped out in whatever way John needed, or at least whatever way Rodney thought John needed. He didn't do much of the carpentry work, but he was an engineer, knew about structure and integrity. He was also good with his hands, able to fit the pieces together to form a coherent whole. This, of course, was no surprise to John, who had seen Rodney at work on fragile Ancient equipment, swapping crystals at lightning speed with delicacy and precision, even under gunfire or threat of imminent death.

At first, John thought that he might mind the intrusion, but it turned out he didn't. Rodney was familiar. He was a nice buffer between John and his family, especially since no matter how much time John spent at the Sheppard house, he never got used to seeing his relatives from that angle – himself as a child; the way he and Dave got along, played together, fought like regular siblings; his father's simultaneously gruff and affectionate appearances; the way his mother managed her sons, her husband, and her household.

He had never known her as a person, of course. During his childhood, she had simply been Mom, sometimes Mommy when he was feeling particularly affectionate, or needy, or as he discovered with surprise one day when Little John was angling for a trip to his friend's house that his mother wasn't willing to give, angry. But Claire Sheppard didn't tolerate tantrums, John found, from either her sons or her husband, no matter what you called her.

John still didn't know the deepest parts of Claire Sheppard. He was the hired worker, after all, not her secret confidant. And that's mostly what he did around the house, anyway: work. But he saw glimpses, things he'd never seen through his childhood eyes. She was almost always home, at least during the day. She didn't hover over John and David, but she was also never far, either, should one of the boys need her. She read a surprising amount, and a large variety. John was always coming across her with a book in her hand, or the books she was reading, left about the house, usually in the last place she'd been. She read more than one book at a time, books that ranged from romances to _Crime and Punishment_ to Agatha Christie mysteries. She read non-fiction, mostly science books, on everything from biology to physics. John found himself picking up the books he came across; they were turned down, open to the place where Claire had left off. John would pick them up, read for a few pages before common sense or the need to go back to work returned to him, as if the secrets to his mother's personality were hidden within the pages.

Nothing about Rodney was hidden, however – at least not to John. He was a comfortable presence, familiar, solid. He interacted with the Sheppards the same way he interacted with everyone else: with bluntness, egoism, and honesty. Claire took him in stride, though, granted, he was not at full McKay capacity, at least in John's estimation. With no minions to frighten and no real work to do, Rodney did the best he could not to be at a loss, but he also had less reason to yell, which John found he actually missed, not that he would ever say so to Rodney.

If sometimes John felt that Rodney was keeping an eye on him, he didn't say so. If McKay was hovering, he didn't admit to it. Just as they didn't talk about why it was they felt the need to live together, they didn't talk about why McKay started coming to work with John, at least not beyond the occasional jokes about boredom.

It was just another unspoken agreement in John's life.

****

Rodney was working on a plan for the wiring of the new office. John had gotten most of the frame up, and Rodney was beginning to move from sketching out plans on paper and clearing them with Claire to spending more and more time at the hardware store, buying parts. David, who had taken to tagging along at Rodney's heels, went along, helping to choose switches, knobs and hardware. John could almost swear he'd never seen Dave so excited as the day Rodney let him choose the hardware for the lighting in the new office.

They were in the new office one day in late June, John working on making sure the last of the framing was in place while Rodney started measuring for cables and wiring. Little John was on the poured concrete floor, reading a comic and controlling the radio, switching channels as he deemed necessary. David had been with them until Claire had to drag him away for baseball camp, holding levels for John and doing some calculations with Rodney.

Rodney would sing along with the radio, usually under his breath and slightly out of tune, but it made John hide a smile. He didn't object when Little John changed the channel, or to any of the song selections; Little John hummed along, the line of his melody following more closely with Rodney than the song on the radio. John kept the beat with his foot, or if he was working, with his hammer, which made Little John giggle and Rodney roll his eyes.

Rodney had already started singing before John recognized the song, Little John humming the notes up and down the scale.

 _Almost heaven, West Virginia  
Blue Ridge Mountains  
Shenandoah River -  
Life is old there  
Older than the trees  
Younger than the mountains  
Growin’ like a breeze_

John looked up from where he was shaving off a bit of extra wood. Rodney was over by the doorway, fiddling with the area that was going to hold the light switches. "John Denver?" John asked, throwing Rodney a look.

Rodney didn't answer, just started to sing louder.

 _Country roads, take me home  
To the place I belong  
West Virginia, mountain momma  
Take me home, country roads_

Little John looked up at Rodney and grinned, turning the radio up.

 _All my memories gathered round her  
Miner's lady, stranger to blue water  
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky  
Misty taste of moonshine  
Teardrops in my eye_

 _Country roads, take me home  
To the place I belong  
West Virginia, mountain momma  
Take me home, country roads_

 

Finally, John joined in, Rodney and Little John already singing at full volume.

 

 _I hear her voice  
In the mornin' hour she calls me  
The radio reminds me of my home far away  
And drivin' down the road I get a feelin'  
That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday_

 _Country roads, take me home  
To the place I belong  
West Virginia, mountain momma  
Take me home, country roads_

 

Little John had to stop, he was laughing so hard, rolling slightly on the floor. John and Rodney carried along with the radio until even Rodney faded out, leaving John with the last three lines alone.

 

 _Country roads, take me home  
To the place I belong  
West Virginia, mountain momma  
Take me home, country roads  
Take me home, now country roads  
Take me home, now country roads_

 

Little John was still laughing softly, though he turned the radio down after the song ended. John ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck; he looked up to see Rodney meeting his eyes, a soft smile quirking at the corner of Rodney's mouth.

 

John ducked his head again, but this time, he was smiling.

 

****

John got up in the middle of the night; he often did these days. He slipped on a t-shirt to go with his sleep pants, one he had run through the washer at the laundromat about fifteen times, trying to get it as soft as the washers on Atlantis got his clothes. It still wasn't even close, but it was better.

He padded out into the living room, thinking of both the milk and the brandy they kept in the kitchen. The living room was dark, but John was careful; they didn't have a lot of furniture to trip over or for him to stub a toe on. He made it halfway across the room before he noticed the Rodney-shaped lump on the couch.

Torn between continuing on to the kitchen without disturbing Rodney and curiosity about what Rodney was doing there in the first place, John quietly walked over until he was a few inches from the couch.

Even that, apparently, was enough to wake Rodney, who stirred and said, "Sheppard?"

" 'Sme, Rodney. I didn't mean to wake you."

Rodney rolled over onto his back, his eyes searching for John in the dark. John moved closer.

"It's okay. Wasn't sleeping well anyway." Rodney yawned.

"You all right, McKay?"

Rodney nodded. "Fine. Just." He paused, sighed. "The bed's too big."

"The bed?"

"The bed. In my room. It's too big. Not like on -- " Rodney stopped.

John sighed. "Yeah."

"It was good at first, but now . . ."

"Yeah."

There was silence for a moment.

"I miss the ocean," John blurted.

Rodney sat up.

"Without the waves . . . it's hard to sleep." John sighed.

"Oh," Rodney said, and looked down at his lap. "Yeah."

John crossed his arms, shuffled his feet.

"You could . . . we could. If you wanted." Even in the dim light from the window, John could have sworn he could see Rodney blush.

"McKay?"

"You could sleep out here, too, if you wanted. Like we were on a mission? Just for the company. Might help us sleep." Rodney cut himself off before he could really start babbling.

John looked down at his bare feet. He knew what Rodney was offering -- and what might come from it. Whether Rodney did or not, John couldn't be sure, but Rodney, for all of his social ineptness, wasn't that stupid. John's chest constricted.

"John?"

John breathed out a shaky breath. "Yeah. Okay." He nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, come on, then," Rodney said, scooting over on the couch.

John walked over, easing himself onto the couch next to Rodney. They settled into a semi-comfortable position, Rodney facing the back of the couch, John carefully spooned behind him, the blanket over the both. Rodney sighed a little, and snuffled very softly into the pillow he'd brought from his bed. John pressed his nose to the nape of Rodney's neck, and tried not to give himself away by breathing too deeply.

The last thing John remembered before drifting off to sleep was Rodney picking up John's arm and putting it over his waist, trapping John's hand under his own on Rodney's stomach.

****

John woke up the next morning feeling uncomfortably hot and a little squished. He and Rodney were still on the couch, in virtually the same positions; John's foot was numb from getting trapped under Rodney's leg, and he was hot, sweating a bit into the neck of his black t-shirt.

He was also half-hard. He slowly started to pull his foot out from under Rodney's calf.

"Don't even think about it, Sheppard," came out slightly muffled by the cushions on the back of the couch.

John scooted away a little, anyway, at least as far as he could without a) falling off the couch and b) earning Rodney's wrath.

Rodney shifted, turning over to face John, an act accomplished with more grace, and less flailing of limbs, than John would have ever imagined. Rodney's eyes were big, close, and impossibly blue.

"I can't believe you're making me do this," Rodney said.

John frowned.

Rodney sighed. "Not . . this . . ." Rodney said, gesturing in the very little space between them. "Making me . . . I'm not. I'm not supposed to be the sensible, emotionally stable one in. You know. _These_ situations." Rodney sighed; John felt the warm breath on his cheek.

"Sorry to put you out, McKay," John managed, voice still gruff from sleep.

"Damn straight you're sorry," Rodney said, though there was no bite in the words or the tone. He reached a hand up to cup John's jaw, his cheek. John twitched under the touch, but didn't pull away from it.

"What is this?" John asked. He saw Rodney search his face, eyes moving, finally settling somewhere near John's nose.

"What do you think?" Rodney replied.

"You know, you're not supposed to answer a question with a question," John said.

Rodney sighed. "Don't," he said.

"Okay," John said, softly. He took a deep, shaky breath.

Rodney leaned in slightly, just barely pressing his lips to John's. John pressed back immediately, unconsciously, opening his mouth just enough to taste. The sound of his stubble scratching Rodney's own rasped in his ear as he pulled away slowly and rubbed Rodney's cheek with his own.

"So," John said.

"Yeah," Rodney said, moving his hand to John's shoulder.

John leaned in and kissed him.

****

If their routine had seemed domestic before, John thought, it was nothing compared to what it was like when they spent every waking moment together _and_ started sleeping together. They took turns with chores and things like grocery shopping; John cleaned the kitchen and Rodney the bathroom. The carpet got dingy because they both hated vacuuming. They went to work in the morning, gigantic mugs of coffee already drunk, the remains waiting in the sink for washing. They mostly ate out, or sometimes Rodney cooked simple meals: steak, spaghetti, grilled cheese and soup. They read or watched t.v. in the evening, spent the night in what had been John's room, having sex and sleeping like the dead after, until the alarm clock went off and they started all over again.

They never talked about Atlantis.

****

John found Rodney, of all places, out by the pool. He had been looking for Rodney to finish the last of the electrical wiring to the new addition, had checked the study and the kitchen; the last place he expected to find Rodney was out by the pool during the August heat. But there Rodney was. Granted, Rodney was wearing a bucket hat and _shorts_ , which John would never have guessed Rodney would wear in a million years, and he looked suspiciously barefoot. Even from this distance, though, John could see the sunscreen that hadn't been rubbed in properly on the back of Rodney's neck, near his shirt collar. The haze and the heat in the air made sweat start to prickle on John's forearms, and he checked his back pocket for the epipen before he realized he was doing it.

As he rounded the corner, though, John could see Rodney wasn't alone -- Little John and Claire were also there. All three had pulled up chairs to one of the patio tables; Rodney seemed to be holding court, a pad in front of him and a pencil in his hand, though John saw him hand the pencil to Little John a second later. Claire smiled and exchanged a glance with Rodney as Little John bent his head in concentration.

"Am I interrupting?" John asked, coming to a stop next to Rodney.

Claire looked up at him her smile nearly as bright as the day. "Of course not, John."

"We're just doing a little trig," Rodney said, looking down at Little John's paper and tapping the paper near a number gently. Little John offered a soft, "oh," and then started erasing, putting something else in as soon as he was done.

Claire turned her head and looked at the paper, too. "Good! Better!" she said, and Little John beamed at her.

"Well, if it's math --" John said, smiling a little, a quirk of the right side of his mouth.

"Did you need something?" Claire asked, looking back up and using her hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight.

"I was just looking for Rodney to check the last of the wiring, but it can wait. The meeting of the Mensa club can continue," he said, grinning. He saw Rodney roll his eyes, and Rodney couldn't quite hide his own grin completely, either.

Claire laughed. "John's been going to math camp, but it hasn't been very challenging."

Little John shot a look at John. "Multiplication," he said, in a tone of voice that bordered into revulsion. John laughed.

"So Rodney's been giving him a little extra work on the side." Claire reached out and ruffled her son's hair, earning a highly embarrassed and slightly nasal, " _Mom_ ," for her trouble.

"It's not much," Rodney added.

"Nonsense," Claire countered. "We all enjoy it."

"We?" John asked.

Claire actually flushed a bit, and John didn't think it was from the heat, though he wasn't sure what it was from. "Well. I trained to be a math teacher in college, and Patrick was a chemistry major. David has quite the head for numbers, but I think John has the imagination for math." She smiled again.

"They're a family of math geeks," Rodney said. John cuffed him on the back of the head. "What? They are!"

Rodney was saved from John's reply by a tug on his sleeve by Little John. "What do you think, Rodney?" Little John looked so earnest John had to look away.

"Oh, well. Let me see," Rodney said, pulling the pad back toward him so he could see it better.

John looked between the three of them, all bent over the pad of paper. "I'll. Um. I'm going to go back inside," he said.

Rodney waved a hand in John's general direction. "Sure. I'll be there in a minute."

"Yeah. No problem," John said, walking back inside. It was cool inside, but John couldn't seem to catch his breath. The dining room was cool and dark, and John stood just inside the doorway, his head resting on the wall. He was still there when he heard Rodney come in, probably looking for him. He took a deep breath and pushed out from the wall, trying to find a smile at the same time he went to find Rodney.

****

It was Saturday afternoon. John was doing dishes while Rodney sat at the kitchen table, paying some bills and doodling equations in the margins of the Sunday paper.

"Sheppard?"

"Yeah?" John replied absently, rinsing one of the dishes from lunch. He glanced over at Rodney, who was working on something on the front page of the sports section.

"Your -- Claire." He paused. "She knows the head of the science department at the community college, and she set me up with him." John looked up and over at Rodney. "Anyway, he has an opening in physics, and offered it to me. I think I'm going to take it," Rodney ended, glancing between John and the newspaper.

John put the dish in the drying rack. He reached for the dish towel, wiping his hands. But he didn't turn around. "You're taking a job?"

"Yes. Is there a problem with that?" Rodney's voice had already gotten louder.

John turned around and leaned against the sink. "Maybe."

"Maybe. Maybe. _Maybe_."

"Yes, McKay. _Maybe_."

"Jesus, John." Rodney stood up, the chair skittering across the kitchen floor. " _You've_ been working a job since we've been here! Since before I've been here! While we were both still in the goddamn _Pegasus Galaxy_!"

"That's different!" Even as he said it, John knew it sounded ridiculous. But it was true.

"Are you kidding me?" Now, Rodney was yelling. "How the fuck is it different?"

"It just -- it is," John stuttered.

"Why? Because I'm not working for my dead parents?"

The silence in the kitchen was suddenly deafening. "Fuck you, McKay," John said and left the kitchen.

John was halfway out the front door by the time Rodney caught up. He chucked something at Rodney that Rodney fumbled before he managed to get a secure grip. Rodney opened his palm as the door slammed: it was the TARDIS, the charging cradle made by Rodney sitting, now empty, in its spot on the coffee table.

****

The front door clicked open and shut just before midnight. John walked in the dark into their bedroom. Rodney was either asleep or feigning sleep, though the lamp on the nightstand was on, and Rodney was on top of the blankets. John went on into the bathroom, flicking on the light. He brushed his teeth, washed his face; he looked tired even to himself. Turning the light out he padded back into the living room. He was pulling the blanket down from the back of the couch when he heard Rodney's voice from the bedroom doorway.

"What happened, John?"

John turned, blanket in hand. "If I say none of your fucking business, will you leave me alone?"

Rodney crossed his arms in front of his chest. "No."

John sighed. "That's what bars are for, McKay, when people need places to go that aren't their house."

"You're not drunk," Rodney noted.

"No," John said simply.

"And that's not what I meant," Rodney said.

John grimaced. "Well. Someone like me can't be expected to keep up with your genius, Rodney."

Rodney sighed, but didn't rise to the bait. He stepped forward, though still well away from John. "What happened to Claire, John? What happened to your mother?"

John drew in a sharp breath, but it didn't help; he still felt like he couldn't breathe. He didn't answer.

"She's why we're here, isn't she? I mean, why you ended up here, or why you stayed. Your father, I mean, he's fine, but he's also an asshole, and I'm sure _that_ didn't get any better after she." Rodney stopped. "After she was gone."

"If I say it's none of your fucking business, will you leave me alone?"

"No." Rodney stepped closer.

John looked down at the blanket in his hands. "I need you to want to get back to Atlantis."

"Yeah."

"If you don't -- "

"I do."

"But you -- you're settled in here, too. Taking a teaching job." John paused, tried to suck in another breath. "With the family."

"With you."

John looked up sharply, dropped his gaze at the openness on Rodney's face. "Sure. With me."

"This. Us." Rodney sighed. "It doesn't end here. It doesn't have to -- if we get back to Atlantis, we can still . . ."

"I --" John started.

"Fuck Don't Ask Don't Tell. No one needs to know, and if they do, they won't care," Rodney said.

"It's not Don't Ask Don't Tell," John said.

"Then what?"

"It's _me_. I'm not sure. I." John stopped. "This is. This is. All of it. This is what I can't have," John grit out.

"What? Me? Your family?"

John nodded.

"Who says?"

John looked up, startled. Rodney's mouth twitched, and for a second John thought he was going to smile.

"Seriously, Sheppard. Who says? God? The universe? You?"

"It's not funny, McKay."

"No, it's not," Rodney said softly.

John looked down. "I." He blew out a breath. "The horses, they're hers, you know."

Rodney nodded.

"She loved them. Loved riding. I. She was out one day. It had just started to rain, so I went out to get her, bring her inside. When I got there, the horse. The horse got spooked. Everyone always thought it was the weather -- lightning, thunder or something." John twisted the blanket in his hands. "She tried to keep control. But she fell."

"Head injury?" Rodney asked.

John shook his head. "Broke her neck."

"How old were you?"

"Nine. It was the summer after . . . well, after this one."

Rodney blew out a breath. "It was not your fault."

John looked up into the certainty on Rodney's face. "You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do. Genius, remember?"

John shook his head. Still looking down, he was surprised when Rodney's arms suddenly enveloped him, drawing him into a hug.

"You stupid, stupid bastard," Rodney said. But he didn't let go.

John eventually reached up, put his arms around Rodney in return. "You sure know how to sweet talk a guy, Rodney," he said.

"Damn right," Rodney said, turning his face into John's neck.

****

If Rodney kept going to work every day with John, no one mentioned it.

And if Rodney started carrying the TARDIS around in his pocket, no one mentioned that, either.

****

It had been a long day. They'd been putting up the rest of the drywall in the last of the new rooms. Drywall was a dirty, dusty job that John had always hated; the stuff got everywhere -- he was sure he'd be showering it out of his hair for the next week.

"Serves you right for the amount of product you put in there," Rodney had smirked.

Still, it was payday, and John was looking forward to a cold beer, a good cheeseburger, and Rodney, more or less in that order. Rodney was already in the kitchen drinking a glass of water when John got there. Claire was opening the drawer where she usually kept her checkbook.

"Thanks, John and Rodney," she said, writing out the check. "I know it was a lot of extra work this week."

Rodney opened his mouth to reply but John cut him off with a pinch to the arm and put on his best "aw sucks ma'am" smile. "It was no problem, Claire."

Rodney said something under his breath that John barely caught, probably along the lines of, "Just my genius being wasted."

Claire smiled. "Good." She snapped her fingers. "Oh, right. Wait. Rodney, I have something for you." She turned back around to the junk drawer.

"A Nobel?" Rodney asked, again in a low tone, though John made it out clearly this time.

Claire turned back toward them, holding up a key. "It's a key to the house. It only makes sense for you to have one, in case John can't be here one day or something."

"Uh, sure," Rodney said, taking the key from her.

John rolled his eyes. "This is the part where you say thank you, McKay."

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks."

Claire looked amused. "You're welcome."

"Here, let me -- before I forget." Rodney started fumbling in his pocket, pulling out three quarters and two dimes, the TARDIS, and a keychain. He threw the change and the TARDIS on the kitchen counter and started to put the key on his keyring. "I tend to forget doing this kind of stuff. Don't want to lose it or anything," he said. He threw John a "look how thoughtful I'm being" look.

John figured he'd show Rodney just how much he appreciated Rodney's thoughtfulness later.

"Oh, that's interesting," Claire said, reaching for the TARDIS. "Does it do anything, or is it just part of your keychain?"

"Don't touch that!" Rodney snapped, probably partly out of habit and partly out of the same panic John was feeling rise in his chest.

John was opening his mouth to say something, too, but it was too late; Claire had already picked up device.

It was already glowing a deep yellow in her hand.

"Oh, that's pretty," she said, turning the TARDIS around in her fingers.

Rodney was gaping like a fish, though John thought wildly that he couldn't talk, seeing how gobsmacked he was himself.

"What is it? A flashlight?" Claire asked.

Rodney started snapping his fingers. "You -- you," he pointed at Claire, still snapping.

"Rodney," John started.

"And _you_ ," Rodney said, still snapping and pointing at John.

" _Rodney_."

"I. You." Rodney turned back to Claire. "You're -- I mean. He had to have gotten it from somewhere, I guess, but -- "

" _ **Rodney**_ ," John snapped, distantly aware of how much like his father's military bark he sounded.

Rodney turned to John, gesticulating. "She. She's like a damn Ancient charger! In the flesh! We could've -- I should've thought of this _weeks_ ago."

John took in Claire's confusion and groaned.

Rodney whirled back to Claire. "But. But you're not going anywhere."

"Where would I go?" Claire asked.

"Yeah, _Rodney_ , where would she go?" John managed in his best "do not tell her exactly where she would go" voice. Meanwhile, the TARDIS reached a shade that could only be called amber.

"I don't know, she could -- the possibilities --" Rodney started.

"Where would I go? I'm exactly where I want to be," Claire said.

John and Rodney just looked at each other. There was silence as Claire turned the device over in her hands, examining it once more.

Finally, it was Claire who broke the silence. "Is it a flashlight?" she asked.

John answered while still looking at Rodney. "Yeah," he said softly. "It's a flashlight. It lights the way home."

"Home," Rodney said.

John turned to Claire. "Thank you," he said. He stepped forward, brushed his lips softly across the coolness of Claire's cheek. "Thank you," he repeated, gently taking the device out of her hands.

He held his other hand out to Rodney, who took it and entwined their fingers, warm and steady.

"Let's go," John said, and thought _Home. Home. Home._

****

When they landed in the lab, the lights flashed brightly as if to welcome them back.

When they landed in the lab, John cupped Rodney's face in his hands and offered up a welcome and thanksgiving of his own.


End file.
